


Lethal Weapon

by catwalkninja



Series: this is not a 90's action movie [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Arthur is a lawyer, Christmas, Domestic Fluff, Eames is a cop, Established Relationship, Kissing, Kissing in Hospitals, M/M, Minor Violence, One Shot, Romantic Angst, Romantic Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 06:09:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5237279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catwalkninja/pseuds/catwalkninja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It should be against the law to shoot someone while they’re hanging Christmas lights, Eames considers, annoyed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lethal Weapon

**Author's Note:**

> has nothing at all to do with Lethal Weapon really... except for how it does? Sort of companion to Speed (i've started a series now), where everything is 90's action movie over-the-top plot wise and Eames is a cop and Arthur is a lawyer of some sort and probably a very good one, although that isn't important to the story. Anyway, this all started with me thinking of Speed 2: Cruise Control and sort of flew off the rails from there (as you might notice) into this thing that I present to you now. Enjoy!

It should be against the law to shoot someone while they’re hanging Christmas lights, Eames considers, annoyed.

Of course, Eames would rather not be shot at any time if he could help it. It was a painful experience, usually rather messy, and had the potential to be fatal—he’d been lucky so far and had the scars to prove it. If he had to be shot or shot at, Eames usually liked being able to shoot back. Tit for tat, or something. As it is, he’s on his back in the snow, the cold turning his muscles numb, his breath smoking out into the late November air. He has a bullet in his shoulder and it’s just as painful as he remembers. His guns are in the house, perfectly useless.

He’s a little pissed with himself over that. It’s not like he didn’t know this might happen. The abandoned string of lights dangles from the roof, mocking him.

It’s Frankie’s fault, he reasons. Or no, it’s not Frankie’s fault really even though the ex-druggie wasn’t known for making the best decisions. Which was mostly why he was currently in an induced coma at the hospital, under twenty-four hour surveillance, his recent “jump” out a second story window putting into serious question if he’d ever be able to ski again. Eames hadn’t pushed him. But someone had. The same someone, they’d figured, that Frankie had rather loudly witnessed doing something unpleasant and illegal.

Which wasn’t really Eames’ scene. He didn’t mess with corporate criminals. He liked the regular scum, petty idiots, and the occasional jerk who planted pipe bombs. Heck, even those school kids, running naked for social change he could understand. Big dirty money—he didn’t get it.

Regardless, Cobb had put him on the case, which was acceptable all around because Eames and Frankie had a history. It wasn’t a friendship, but Frankie was helpful enough times to keep him from spending too much time in lock up, so Eames minded a little that someone thought they could toss the guy out a window and get away with it. Frankie may have been a rat, but he was Eames’ rat, and so it was Eames’ case. They just needed a name, which of course they didn’t have. Thankfully, they’d been able to piece together enough jumble to know in which cesspool to drop their worm: a nice little rumor painting Eames as a opportunist cop looking to get the jump with Frankie’s shared info. They’d dropped it and waited for Mr. Dirty Money to take the bait.

Eames is only a little surprised at how it’s all turned out. He didn’t figure Corporate Drudge the type to turn to high-powered long-range weaponry.

Of course, he’s not dealing with a professional here; he wouldn’t be breathing if he was. And there’s ways in which that’s not a comforting thought, but Eames is always thankful for the little things. Still, he’s not about to stumble up and give the guy a second chance for a better shot. So he’s staying low, cold sadly, but alive for the time being. Plus, he might be sulking, just a little.

There is, in addition to everything, a hole in his favorite Christmas sweater—he imagines the blood _his blood_ staining the white and green wool a hideous red-brown and it makes him sick. His Nan made this sweater, _made_ it with her very own arthritic fingers years back, when he was still living in London. He’s refused to throw it away every time Arthur dared suggesting it, even though it is a little tight across the chest and the moths have had their way with the cuffs. What Arthur has against the sweater, Eames doesn’t know, but here he was now, bleeding all over it because of some money-hungry asshole. He’d have to get rid of it now.

So Eames is sulking, bemoaning the loss of his sweater and thinking about the stupid look Arthur will get on his stupid face knowing he’s finally to be rid of it, and supposes he should probably do something proactive and stop being such a baby.

He has, after all, been shot.

Eames reaches into his pants pocket, hoping his phone survived the fall. He pulls it out with a little bit of force, feeling weak and faint and hating it completely. His fingers are a little cold, but then, he’s cold all over. Eames swipes the screen, dries his snow-wet fingers on his sweater front and swipes again. This time the screen responds.

Arthur frowns at him from the wallpaper, half-dressed and in a state of recently-woken muss. If Eames remembers correctly, he’d been rather new to the phone and had set the flash off, right in Arthur’s eyes. Arthur had flipped him off after and called him something spectacularly obscene. It was a delightful morning altogether. Eames smiles at the image, warmly.

It takes longer than normal for the call to connect, but that’s just Eames’ luck with phones really. Three long rings later, Dom Cobb answers.

“Eames, I am eating dinner,” his boss says.

Never let it be said that Dominic Cobb didn’t know how to start a conversation off right.

“Good for you,” Eames responds, feeling heavy everywhere. “I think we’ve had a nibble.”

Cobb’s tone perks up. “Really?”

Now that Eames thinks about it, he shouldn’t really be pointing a finger of blame. There could be other jerks angry at him for one reason or another. However, attempted murder is hardly a smudge on Dirty Joe’s growing resume of underhanded dealings so Eames doesn’t think he’ll mind the slander if he’s wrong. He’s been shot, he can blame it on blood loss.

“Dirty Joe. I think,” he says, giving him the benefit of doubt anyway. The guy has a name of course, and he doesn’t think it’s Joe anything. But Eames just likes calling him “Dirty” something or other. It makes him feel better about this whole thing. “Also, I’ve been shot. So if you wanted to send someone over after dessert…”

Cobb puffs some sort of double-jointed curse into the phone that Eames has never heard before. It doesn’t sound completely English; Eames blames that beautiful brunette, Cobb’s girlfriend with the lovely accent.

Cobb won’t call her his girlfriend, but everyone else does, maybe just to see him squirm. It’s obvious he's head-over for Mal, he’s just a little touchy because of how they met. Divorce proceedings rarely brought out the best in people. Of course, Cobb’s wife had been a piece of work from the start, but Mal saw something in him despite the soon-to-be ex wife’s angry venom-fueled sessions, the calculated divvying of their every possession and penny. It’s all over now and Cobb is free to date whomever he wishes, even his divorce attorney. Cobb does feel a little sticky about the whole thing –ethics, or something- but that doesn’t stop him from making moon eyes every time someone mentions Mal’s name. Eames thinks that’s pretty much love, even if Cobb won’t admit it.

If it walks like a duck and speaks French, it must be love, he thinks—Eames is losing his focus. He hones back in on Cobb’s voice just in time to hear him explaining he’s on his way.

“Bring an ambulance, yeah?” Eames adds, feeling proud he’s thought of it, shifting a little to see if he still can and regrets it immediately. “Preferably one with a hot paramedic.” He laughs even though it hurts.

Cobb voice does more of the talking thing, words and questions mostly, about the pain, about Arthur, but Eames is pulling the phone away and grunting as he rolls over. Rolling over because it’s been like five minutes and that’s more than enough of a window of opportunity. He’s begun to worry, rather suddenly, that something is wrong.

Well, more wrong than it is.

Eames knows a few things about bullets and guns, and by the sound and the impact and the damage, he knows Dirty Joe isn’t parked in the clock tower across town. He is much closer, across the street more likely. And if he was close, five minutes was more than enough time to confirm a kill—presuming Joe wanted to make sure all his loose ends were tied up. Eames isn’t really sure; he hates this corporate criminal bullshit. But, just because Dirty Joe wasn’t a professional didn’t mean he was stupid. The trees surrounding Eames and Arthur’s home were too low, too thick to confirm from a distance, so Joe would have to get down in his designer suit and physically check. The idea gave Eames something to grin about. And yet—

Not a peep from Joe with the sniper rifle. Which meant… _what?_

Eames gets his feet under him and stops, wrist deep in the snow, everything so cold in the way he’s begun to not notice. Things sway in his vision, a pulse of blood rushes hotly down his arm. He swallows, and begins to crawl forward. The going is slow and it’s less crawling and more of a shuffle and drag; his left arm is somehow on fire, and his shoulder screams at him with every tiny movement.

The side door is closest, a sliding glass beauty, and Eames hauls himself towards it, coming within touching distance when a pair of feet swallow his vision. Boots, those weekend-badass lace-up type, purchasable at any sporting goods store. And Dirty Joe surely purchased his at a reasonable price too, judging by the man-made soles that wouldn’t last the winter.

But yes, Eames is getting off track again. Shoes weren’t altogether important right now: the gun in Dirty Joe’s hand is. He’s abandoned the rifle somewhere and switched to an embarrassingly-small hand gun, something Eames would surely have made disparaging remarks about if he was feeling up to the task. But his head is throbbing, thoughts fizzling out. Distantly he thinks he might be shaking, from the general shock and the possible hypothermia, but he looks up into Dirty Joe’s face (the eye-holes in his mask actually, the coward) and tries to call him something nasty and fitting as last words when—

Well, there’s a sound of broken glass and a gunshot and a piercing scream, somehow both separate and simultaneous. Watercolor motion follows: Joe going down in a swirl of black, clutching his knee which is pouring red against the white snow, and then Arthur, every fractal color of Arthur, greys and blues and brown eyes and black hair blurring his vision with nearness. A gun is in Arthur’s hand. Eames' gun. One of the many he's stashed around the house for... occasions just such as this, he supposes. The muzzle still hot, melting the snow, but the safety is flipped. Good job, Eames thinks right before he loses consciousness.

There’s not much he remembers after that, fragments like broken puzzle pieces, words and actions disjointed: Arthur mostly and Arthur’s hands, someone yelling (probably Arthur), bright lights under his tired eyelids, more yelling (Arthur and other people), the sharp smell of antiseptic, and a long expanse of dark, dreamless sleep.

 

//

 

When he wakes, he’s in a hospital bed. There’s an IV in his arm and a warmth at his side. He’s pleasantly surprised to discover its Arthur, curled up next to him. He hasn’t changed, and looks massively fetching in his grey tee and old sweats, watching him with heavy eyes. Eames raises a brow.

“Well, this is new,” he muses, pleased. His voice sounds like pavement feels.

Arthur nudges him with his knee.

“Hush,” Arthur murmurs, nuzzling Eames’ arm. “I’m in shock. I shot someone today.”

Eames knows. And he isn’t complaining, not at all, but there’s enough medication in his system to make him giddy despite the seriousness of it all. “They have blankets for that you know,” he teases.

Arthur fingers skim across Eames’ chest and lifts the hospital blanket helpfully. “Blanket,” he looks at Eames, good-nature sparking in his dark eyes. “I’ve decided to share.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Eames smirks, feeling good. Really good. “So you and me, a comfort blanket, this private room…” Eames lets the insinuation hang, grinning conspiratorially.

Arthur laughs then, hot breath on Eames’ neck and recently injured or not, Eames wants to kiss those lips red.

“Don’t get too excited,” Arthur warns, leaning up on one arm, looking weary-worn, eyes crinkling at the corners the way Eames loves. “Room service is determined to ruin all our fun. She’s a lovely lady with a great personality and hates me completely.”

“Well, darling,” Eames licks his lips in what he hopes is a seductive fashion. Judging by the curve of Arthur’s eyebrow, it’s not a success. “You _are_ an acquired taste.”

Arthur smiles then, dimples and all. “Mr. Eames, are you attempting to flirt with me?”

“Is it working?”

“Not in the least, I’m afraid,” Arthur says with mock severity.

“Damn,” whines Eames, adjusting himself on the bed. “I’ll have to try my luck with that lovely paramedic. She was so attentive to my needs,” he vaguely recalls. “I suppose I should thank her.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Behave,” he hisses, pressing his lips to Eames’ firmly nonetheless. “She wouldn’t have you,” he betrays between the softer kisses that follow, the pair of them solidly ignoring the way the EKG machine starts to beep louder. “You’re an utter sap,” he whispers fondly, his lips never leaving Eames’ for a second.

 _What does that say about you?_ Eames wants to ask, but he’s not as talented as Arthur and would have to stop one activity to do the other. He doesn’t want to stop the kissing, he likes the kissing. The words can wait.

A nurse enters without a knock. She looks like a lovely woman indeed but her eyes narrow when she spots Arthur half-slung over her patient.

“Mr. Callahan,” she swats at him in a manner that says it’s not the first time she’s done so. “What have I told you?”

“Mr. Eames needs his rest,” Arthur recites, scooting off the bed like a punished child.

“And?” She prompts.

Arthur scowls and stares intently at his feet. “The bed is not made for… _canoodling_.”

Eames chokes on his laugh.

“Exactly,” the nurse, whose nametag reads Cecilia, punctuates with a smile. Arthur looks thoroughly put-out.

As much as Eames is loving all this, he’s feels it necessary to come to the defense of his beloved.

“Darling, Cecilia,” Eames charms as the woman performs her perfunctory duties, tutting around him, checking the machines and IV. “Arthur has been nothing but a perfect gentleman. He cares about my well-being immensely, don’t you love?”

Arthur looks up only to skew Eames with a particularly sharp glare.

“In fact,” Eames continues, smirking in the face of Arthur’s embarrassed disapproval, “he’s just what the doctor ordered.”

Cecilia is having none of it. “I can guarantee you, Mr. Eames, that is he not,” she corrects, tapping the clipboard.

Eames assumes a look of outrage and slaps his palm on the bed. “Very well! I demand a new doctor!” He announces playfully. Even Arthur smiles, though the flash of teeth looks very much like they are holding back some sort of reproach.

“Mr. Eames,” Cecilia tuts, assuming an authoritative tone and looking severe. “I will remind you that you lost quite a bit of blood today. Presumably you remember being shot?”

Eames nods, cordially. There’s a sliver of ache that follows the action, blooming across his skull; flares of pain. He winces. Cecilia doesn’t miss a beat.

“And as it is my job to see you well, you will allow me to recommend you both follow my rules and please rest. There will be plenty of time for the _gentlemanly ways_ of Mr. Callahan later.”

Arthur’s face flushes a deep red.

Cecilia exits and Eames is sure he loves her, utterly. He tells Arthur so.

Arthur grumbles in response. The rebellious streak in him is gone; he doesn’t join him in bed again but settles into the chair nearby, crossing his arms and looking uncomfortable. Eames pouts at him for a long while, trying at the very least to draw a smile out of him. Arthur seems to be very serious about this whole abiding by the rules thing suddenly. Well, he’s really always like that. Eames huffs, discontented.

“Bloody hell, Arthur,” he complains after a length of time. “She can’t very well forbid you from at least holding my hand, can she?” He’s whining, feeling cut out and sewed up and sticky and itchy and sad. He tries to look as forlorn as possible, as though he won’t ever fall asleep if Arthur doesn’t do this one thing. Which he’d like to believe was true but just that little bit of _canoodling_ had exhausted him completely. Arthur stares at him for what seems an eternity before pulling the chair closer and taking Eames’ hand in his own. It’s warm, comforting, and Eames holds on for dear life.

It’s funny, he thinks as Arthur flexes his slender hand and stretches out, casting only a half-wary glance at the door before resting his head gently in the crook of Eames’ arm. It’s funny how desperate he is for the smallest touch, as though… as though for a moment, even unconsciously, he thought he’d never have it again.

 

//

 

The whole precinct has made their rounds by the time Eames is discharged. It was a bit crowded at times; the recovery room was not made for the large groups of police officers shuffling through during visiting hours. Cobb sent flowers, although, by the extravagance of the arrangement, Eames is sure it was actually from Mal. Yusuf had even stopped by, thankfully keeping his usual prattle to a dull roar. Some of Arthur’s colleagues that Eames actually knew had passed on their well-wishes as well; Arthur was dressed more properly for all these visits. And as much as Eames had enjoyed the slacker-wear, he swears Arthur in a suit did wonders for his recovery.

By the time Eames is heading home -snuggled in a blanket that was gifted him by one of the night nurses, comfortable in something other than the hard fold of the hospital bed- a snowfall has covered the stains in the yard. Or maybe Arthur spent some considerable time getting rid of them. Eames doesn’t ask.

There’s plastic sheeting over the rectangle where once stood the beautiful sliding side door, but the glass has been cleared away and a new door is on it’s way. When he has the courage to inquire, Eames learns his sweater had spent a short time in evidence before it was tossed out, and Eames minds more than he has the heart to say. He had hoped Arthur’s dry cleaner could have performed a Christmas miracle, but alas, no such luck.

He’s sitting in Arthur’s study a week later, thoroughly hating the time he’s been forced to take off from work. Hating the stiffness in his shoulder and the physical therapy and the check-ups, not to mention the pink dip of skin nestled in the hollow of his collar bone, a tender memento. It’s all very frustrating. He’s read every magazine in the house three times, cleaned his guns four times, and watched the Lethal Weapon movies all the way through only once, which was more than enough times to make Arthur hide them.

“Arthur, darling,” he says, peering over the edge of a magazine he’s attempting to read upside down, as though it might spice up the content. “I am going insane here.”

Arthur, who is neck deep in the same case he’s been neck deep in for the past month, looks up, glasses low on his nose, hair in his eyes. Eames frowns apologetically and goes back to the hunting magazine, flipping absently through the pages without any sort of enjoyment. The angle improves nothing; he makes a mental note to discontinue the membership as soon as he can.

Eames looks out the window, watching cars struggle through the slush in the street, a byproduct of the recent mid-winter heat wave. He registers the sound of Arthur’s brief migration into the den and upstairs, soft padded feet against the carpet. He isn’t really paying attention when Arthur returns, something slender in his hands. The slender thing is passed across Eames’ line of vision and dropped into the center of the awful magazine. An envelope.

Eames reads the stamp on the back and looks up, incredulous.

“A cruise?” He asks.

And Arthur, bless him, is soft pink around his cheeks. It’s only happened a handful of times, most of them recently; Eames likes it.

“Well,” he begins, running his fingers through his hair, his other hand out in mid-air, like he’s not sure what to do with it. “You mentioned it, once…” Arthur breaks off, awkwardly.

Eames remembers the night. It wasn’t that long ago in fact. He’d picked up the ridiculous idea after flipping through some vacation photos that’d ended up in evidence. The pictures hadn’t proved the man in custody had killed his wife, only that he’d enjoyed a stunning Caribbean cruise after. It did put a damper on the images a little, but Eames was excellent at keeping his personal life enjoyments separate from his work life opinions. He’d come home late that night with an idea and a bottle of wine.

It was bad timing was all, and one of those idiotic fights where each one said exactly the wrong thing, without meaning to, and then didn’t have the courage to make it right. Arthur had shouted something about time and deadlines and Eames had dropped the idea promptly—the bottle of wine he’d not dropped, but nursed lovingly and alone through the night. It didn’t matter anyway, Eames disputed later, as he was almost immediately handed a case that meant the impossibility of a cruise, or any vacation really. Not that he was shocked, chances came along so rarely for the two of them; Eames had figured he just try again later, or not.

But here was Arthur, beating him to the punch as it were.

Eames studies him with the utmost of fondness in his heart. He loves this man, he really truly does.

“I mean…” Arthur appears flummoxed -another rarity- at Eames’ prolonged silence and intense staring. “If you don’t want to, I can… the tickets are refundable… I just thought…”

Eames lurches forward and wraps his arms right around Arthur’s middle, causing all the air to huff out of him with an audible _oof._

“Darling,” Eames exclaims affectionately against Arthur’s hip. “Please, let’s go on a cruise!”

 

//

 

As it turns out, Arthur doesn’t do well with water and the first few days are a bit rough. But after the first port, some sun, and enough food to feed a small army, he’s got some of the color back in his cheeks. When he’s feeling better, he takes up Eames’ challenge to zip line for the first time and doesn’t hate it entirely.

Eames flirts with every crew member and buys Arthur some stupid plastic souvenir at every port. He takes pictures of everything, learns how to play shuffle board, and befriends an elderly couple who are self-proclaimed cruise veterans from Texas.

They both get drunk one spectacular evening and sing Baby Got Back at karaoke to each other, loudly and without reservation. Eames later tries to reenact scenes from Titanic, much to Arthur’s drunken disdain, and they both retire red-faced to their cabin, falling asleep right in the middle of an embarrassing round of messy kisses.

When they return to the cold tundra of home it is with heavy luggage and happy hearts. There is a package waiting at the post office and Eames hauls it up from under the tree the next morning, Christmas morning. They’re still in what Eames likes to call ‘vacation mode’: it’s Thursday afternoon in all actuality and the both of them haven’t changed out of their pajamas.

The package is a big brown box, only slightly dented from its trip overseas from London. Eames places it on the bed between them and Arthur just knows what it is before Eames even has the tape pulled back. Wrapping paper, packing peanuts, and a quickly-read-and-tossed card later and Eames is tugging a new Christmas sweater out of the box.

“To days of bullet-free holiday cheer,” Eames crows happily, repeating the message from his beloved Nan. It’s not hand-made, this one, but it’s just as endearingly ridiculous: a jolly Santa balances a brightly wrapped present in one hand and a joyful elf in the other, while reindeer and penguins look on in rapture; trees outlined in glitter beads and sequins complete the background. Eames is positively over the moon.

"The reindeer I get, but penguins?" Arthur criticizes as Eames flaps about, all of twelve years old.

There are other things in the box, but none catching his attention like the sweater. Eames pulls it on right then and there, admiring himself in the mirror while Arthur pokes around the alarmingly delicious candies and sensible clothing accessories Eames’ grandma has included in her gift. Arthur is trying on a pair of lovely leather gloves when Eames returns to steal a chocolate and peers into the box again.

“Oh Arthur!” He dives to the bottom and comes up with something red and awful. Arthur would be lying if he said he didn’t go a little pale. “Now we can match!”

It is indeed another sweater, a twin to Eames’. Arthur tries to look cheerful and Eames can only laugh at his strangled attempt.

“You don’t have to wear it, love,” he concedes, setting the sweater to the side and stretching out across the bed. Arthur eyes the abandoned sweater warily, as though sensing a trap or an ultimatum. “We can use it as bedding for that litter of kittens you’re having right now,” Eames teases, his eyes dancing.

Arthur sticks out his tongue and prods the sweater with his finger before taking it in hand and holding it up to view again. His eyes are awfully critical, a sort of consternation that pinches all the way through him like he's caught in a vice.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Arthur finally offers, much to Eames’ surprise, although his expression doesn’t change. “Knowing your Nan, I am sure these cost a fortune. Although I cannot fathom why.”

Eames gives him a kiss then, sudden and earnest.

“For saving my life,” he says without thinking, in the half-serious way they begun to refer to the whole almost dying ordeal. Arthur had shot a man in the kneecap for Eames. As declarations of love, that was pretty much tops. If Arthur took the sweater out in the backyard right then and shredded it with scissors before burning it, Eames doesn't think he'd hold it against him. Not ever.

Arthur scrunches up his face in the way he does, tucking away affection for that clear-cut Arthur-patented no-nonsense look.

“It’s just a sweater, Eames,” he argues, affection blurring out the edge in his voice.

Arthur had saved Eames’ life. And of course they'd talked about it, working out some things in the hospital and the rest in the middle of the Caribbean, where real life seemed far away. The first time Eames had thanked him, he’d been dry sober. In hindsight, he wishes he’d thrown back a few shots first. The acknowledgement was heavy, pulling some knotted rope loose inside him, spilling out a half-sewn mess of emotion that nearly broke them both in two. Arthur had shot a man to keep him from shooting Eames again. Never mind that Arthur wanted to have killed Dirty Joe for attempting to kill Eames—he hadn’t, but that he wanted to had taken some time to sort out. Not that such things weren't warranted, an approximate response, but revelations like that didn’t come easy. 

However, the words have become lighter and the memory of it all, better, in that sort of pastel-colored way one could look back on near-death experiences.

Eames doesn’t even bother respond, just gestures Arthur to try on the sweater as he rolls on his back and tugs out his phone, calculating the time difference as he dials. It’s late, but his grandma answers anyway.

“Yup,” he says, mere seconds into the conversation, of which Arthur can only hear one side. He’s obliged Eames and tugged himself into the hideous sweater, surveying the image in the mirror with a decidedly fetching frown. Eames bites his lip to contain the chuckle, but mostly because he’s rather charmed by the sight.

“Oh, he’s thrilled, Nan. A real Christmas bundle of joy.” Arthur scowls at him and Eames winks. “Says we’re going to wear them for our Christmas card next year and everything.”

Arthur strips the sweater off and tosses it at Eames, who assumes a look of high offense, and palms the bottom of the phone to whisper, “I’m on the phone with my nan. Self-control, good man, you’ll get your turn.”

Arthur doesn’t throw up his hands, because he’s never done that a day in his life. But Eames can see him bristle in pure frustration and he’s out of the room before Eames can blink.

 

//

 

Later, Eames makes it up to him.

“Merry Christmas, darling,” Eames whispers, coming up behind him in the study, where Arthur is cycling through emails and Eames’ persistence at the soft spot beneath his ear is a mighty distraction.

Arthur gives up, unexpectedly reaching for Eames’ first, kissing him soundly, properly. Arthur is so sure of everything in his life, but it's become painfully clear that his surety is an illusion. Twice now he's brushed the possibility of losing Eames—or was it a piece of himself, and isn't that the same thing really?—and has had enough of such things.

So he says "I love you", whispering the words just as unexpectedly across Eames' skin, his lips, his very heart in fact, and Eames feels as though he could lift the man into his arms and carry him across the world for that.

Instead, he kisses Arthur back, just as thoroughly, knowing to capitalize on a good thing when he can, and doesn’t carry Arthur upstairs but gets him there nonetheless, where bullet wounds and ugly sweaters are all but forgotten.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur is the 'lethal weapon' in my opinion... and probably Eames' too. that is all.


End file.
